


mind my wicked words and tipsy topsy smirk

by a_simple_space_nerd



Series: so it hurts to say it's hopeless [2]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Found Family, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post 4.13, Post-Season/Series 04, Pre-Season/Series 05, no one dies so it's pretty good for 100 standards, people actually confronting their feelings: a concept
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-01
Updated: 2017-07-01
Packaged: 2018-11-21 20:48:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11365362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_simple_space_nerd/pseuds/a_simple_space_nerd
Summary: She wants to throw something but she knows she can’t. She wants to smash the radio to smithereens but she knows she shouldn’t. Clarke pulls on the ends of her hair and leans down over the radio, elbows and forearms pressed flat on the table, and takes in a steady breath. Then she screams.(Clarke talks to them every day for years and years and this is what matters, but also: old things heal and new things grow.)





	mind my wicked words and tipsy topsy smirk

**Author's Note:**

> Hey! This story can be read as a sequel to "you were clearly meant for more, than a life lost in the war" but also as a stand-alone story. Enjoy!

“Day four. I’m—I think I’m dying. I’m sorry. Just… just please be alive. Please.”

 

Clarke clicks off the radio and lies back, joints creaking and lips cracking open as she moves. A lone tear slips down her cheek but she can’t find the strength to wipe it away. Somehow, she’d always thought her death would be faster than this. Somehow, she wishes it was.

 

“Day seven. I’m not dead yet. I think the storm’s finally ending. I wish… things had been different. I wish I knew if you could hear me. I wish a lot of things.”

 

Her mouth is dry with her words, with the implication of a thousand what-ifs. Her finger falls off the radio’s button, still shaky and bandaged, healing slowly but surely. Clarke draws her knees to her chest and her back against the cool metal of the wall, looking around Becca’s lab. She closes her eyes and tries to relax, tries to let the tense muscles in her neck unfurl for just a moment, and sleep claims her soon enough. She’s been sleeping a lot, this past week. She hopes that if she dies, when she dies, the earth is kind enough to let it happen when she doesn’t know about it.

 

“Day fifteen. So I’ve done the math and there’s enough supplies to last me for around a year, if I decide to stay here. The radiation will probably kill me anyways, so I might as well get it over with, right? Go outside. What’s the difference, dying now or in a year’s time?”

 

“Day sixteen. I didn’t mean that. Sorry, Bellamy.”

 

“It’s been twenty-five days, Bellamy. I hope you guys are okay. I spent all of today sketching, on the floors, on the walls, on every piece of paper I could find. It was just—I couldn’t remember how long Harper’s hair was, gods.”

 

The radio has been moved to the floor, now, surrounded by scraps of paper, open books, silhouettes painted on the floor. Clarke sits cross-legged in the middle of it, eyes dry, heart numb as she looks around her, at the faces of those she loves and those she’s loved and lost, charcoal gripped loosely in-between her fingers, finally taking a break from her self-imposed quest to take it all in. There’s Abby, on the wall—Kane, too. Indra, Anya, and Lexa, shining brighter than the sun, soft smile adorning her features, hair loose and tumbling ovr one shoulder, eyes gentle. Finn, hair longer than it was when he died, easy grin pulling at his lips. There’s Jasper, googles and all, and Monty over and over until she could get his smile just right. Octavia, in the curve of her smile or the set of her jaw or the toss of her hair, arms raised in defiance or in jubilation, teeth bared in joy or in fury. Raven, all over the walls, flowers behind her head and sparks from her fingers. Luna, Roan, Harper, even Echo.

 

And beside them all, there’s Bellamy. He’s the hardest, but Clarke doesn’t need to be sparse with her supplies, so she spends hours capturing ever freckle, every curl, the shadows under his eyes and the scar on his lip, and the smile she’d gotten to see far too rarely. Bellamy is everywhere she turns and Clarke thinks he’d be embarrassed but he’d like it, to be immortalised on the dying planet in this way.

 

“It’s been a month, and I hate every inch of this goddamn bunker already. How the hell am I supposed to last five years? I know I said I’d stay inside but—I hate this. Being locked up inside. It’s almost like I’m back in solitary… that’s actually pretty accurate, now that I think about it. Figures.”

 

“It’s been fifty days. I’d say fifty days _already_ but I don’t think time has ever passed this slowly for me, not even when I was in solitary. Are you guys okay? Are you even—no. You have to be alive. I didn’t sacrifice my seat for you to all _die_ … I didn’t mean that. I didn’t—please be okay. Why aren’t you radioing, guys? Can you even hear me?”

 

She wants to throw something but she knows she can’t. She wants to smash the radio to smithereens but she knows she shouldn’t. Clarke pulls on the ends of her hair and leans down over the radio, elbows and forearms pressed flat on the table, and takes in a steady breath.

 

And she screams. She screams, and screams, and screams, and there’s no one here to hear her break down so she screams some more. She’s spent so long pushing feels aside or being sad and lonely and—she’s angry, too! She’s furious at—at—herself, and at her friends, and at her mistakes, and at the conclave, and at the earth, for cursing her to this, this half-life, this half-death. She screams and screams and when her throat is hoarse and her eyes are tearing up, she clutches the sketchbook containing all her friends close to her chest and falls asleep, numb and exhausted.

 

 

“Day seventy-three, ark. I’ve been trying to contact Octavia’s bunker, but I think Becca’s lab is running some kind of interference. You could probably figure it out, Raven, but we both know I’m useless when it comes to technology. I really miss you today, more than usual. I think it’s finally hitting me that I’m down here and you’re all up there. I hope you’re not too sad, Raven. You’ve never deserved what the earth gave you. I hope the sky is treating you kinder.”

 

She misses Raven. She misses their friendship, but she thinks that by the time Raven blasted off into the stars she loved so much there wasn’t much of it left. In another world, Clarke believes they would have been best friends, closer-than-sisters, comrades and allies. In this world, Raven was tired and Clarke was lonely and somehow, they kept swinging out of each other’s orbits.

 

 

“Ninety-nine days, everyone. I’ve never been separated from you guys this long, down here. It’s weird. It feels really strange, not seeing you, not hearing about you, not knowing if you’re okay. It’s like I’ve been living for you for so long that I’m not sure how to live for myself anymore, or how to live at all. That sounds stupid now that I’ve said it, but it’s not like anyone can hear me, right? Might as well get it all out there.”

 

This day, she showers and scrubs her skin clear and brushes through her hair and draws the tattoos she wants on pieces of scrap, tugs on the blonde ends of hair and remembers them red, shuffles around in socks and remembers broken high-heels. She plays music and dances around the lab in bare feet, loose sweaters and tight pants, hair swinging around her as she twirls, curling up in the blankets left behind by the evacuation and sketching along to the beat of the music, humming under her breath. This isolation is nothing and everything like the others.

 

“Day one-hundred-seventeen. Did I ever tell you about Wells? I miss him so much, all the time. I haven’t had this much time to just _think_ since we came to earth, so I’ve been thinking about him. He was the kindest person I’ve ever known, and he was my best friend, and I just realised that the last time we really spent time with each other I was sixteen. God, that feels like so long ago, sixteen. I had no idea what was coming. None of us did.”

 

“Day one-hundred-fourty. I’ve figured out I’m not actually sure how old I am anymore. I was eighteen when you all left, and I was seventeen when we landed, but I think my birthday was when we were fighting the fever? I’m actually not sure. I have no way to tell now, anyways. There’s no calendars here. So I have no idea when my birthday is. That’s… strange, to think about.”

 

She gets drunk, sometimes. Sometimes she cries, or she screams, and sometimes she sits and sways, humming along to a tune long forgotten. She’s only actually been drunk once before, she realises. Once only, with Wells and Finn and _I can be fun_. This time, she is alone and lonely and there is no one for her to defend herself against, just the shadows on the walls and the weight in her her eyes.

 

“Bellamy, you’ll never believe what I found. A real book, hidden away under layers of stuff Becca had squirrelled away. It’s called The Odyssey. I’ve never read it, but I bet you have. We never really got to know each other when death wasn’t looming over our heads, but I know you’re a nerd, even after two hundred and three days stuck here alone. Everyone knows that. Nerd.”

 

She lets the affection creep into her voice, not bothering to disguise it under _love is weakness_ or anything like it. There’s no one here to call her out on it, no one here to exploit her fondness, no one here who cares. No one in general. She misses him, she misses them all. She wonders what he’d say if he could see her now, pacing around the same rooms day after day, covering every inch of wall with pencil, sitting for hours in front of the doors. She wonders what her past self would say.

 

“It’s been two-hundred and seventy days, Bellamy, and I’m sorry but there is no way I can stomach another day in this god-awful bunker. I’m going crazy, cooped up in here. The other day I started talking to Monty’s portrait. I can justify the talking to myself when it’s into a radio, but I draw the line at sketches. I have to go outside.”

 

“Day two hundred and ninety-five, and Bellamy, oh my god. I went outside. I went _outside_ and I didn’t _die_ but I did start crying, and they sky is so pretty, Bellamy, I’d almost forgotten... God. I went _outside_.”

 

She clicks off the radio and giggles, fingers still buzzing with the adrenaline. She’s not dead! She’s _not dead_! The Wanheda in her voice mutters a sullen _yet_ but Clarke brushes it aside, bunching on her toes, exhausted from her excursion but overjoyed with the discovery, with the thrill. She’s been exercising while cooped up inside, practicing what self-defence she remembers, unwilling to let what she’d learnt go to waste, and now she’s so glad because _she’s not dead and neither is the earth_.

 

“Day two hundred and ninety-six. Outside, the sky is this red, orangey colour. And everything’s kind of yellow, now that I’ve stopped crying enough to actually look at things. And dead. Everything’s just… dead.”

Her voice is scratchy, and she rubs a knuckle under her eye, slumped against the wall, blanket draped over her knees. The room she’s slumped over in is right next to the door, which she’s closed to avoid looking at the landscape, preferring instead to look at the lively one she’d committed to memory and drawn on the inside of the bunker, surrounding the door with vines and weeping willows, waving wildflowers on the bottoms of the walls. Earth has been remade, and her perceptions of it have once again had to realign themselves with reality.

 

“Day three hundred and fifteen, Bellamy, and oh my god guess _what_ guess _what_ guess _what_ —I made it! I’m off the island! Everything over here is pretty dead too but I have all the supplies from the lab, and I’ve got my sketchbooks and your faces, and the radio, and I’m—I’m off the island. I think I’ll head to Arcadia and go from there, probably... I’m just so—I’m just—I’m _off the island_!”

 

She clicks off the radio and carefully places it back into the cradle of blankets she’s carried over from the island, supplies still nestled into the boat she’d pieced together with scrap metal and charred wood, beached but only barely. She’s sitting on the edge, back to the water, fingers gripping the ledge of the boat, feet planted firmly in the sand and pebbles that make up the beach, and then before she can even comprehend her actions she’s pushing herself off and away, twirling around on the beach, hands flung out wide around her, the smile stretching over face bigger than she thinks it ever has here on Earth, laughing loudly and recklessly with head flung back, hair flying out behind her, alone in the world and yet happier than she can remember being when surrounded by hundreds of her own, prouder of herself for this than she ever was or ever would be for saving her people time and time again.

 

“Everything is gone, Bellamy. The ark, the dropship, everything. There isn’t even any rubble. It’s just—deadland. _Deadland_. Flat and grey and charred and dead and _gone_. It’s been—what, three hundred thirty days? I’m going to head over the mountain and then keep going, because Becca said 96%, right, so there has to be something left. There has to be life somewhere, and I’m going to find it.”

 

**____**

 

_“I’m so glad I’m out of that goddamn bunker, Bellamy, it is so **pretty** here. The sky’s greener now, less red, and oh my god, the trees here  **glow**. I mean, some of the ones by the dropship had glowing moss, but here, they literally  **glow**. I think we’re in glowing forest tribe territory, from what I remember… I’m not sure. I can’t see the mountains anymore. Anyways. It’s so much nicer than Trikru territory, I wish we’d landed here with the dropship. I’m not sure how much further I can go this way, though. The wave burnt pretty much everything from here onwards. The desert is just—gone. It’s this flat deadland now... And the ocean is kind of iffy, so I’m avoiding that too, because those fish did  **not**  look healthy. I’m worried that the plains will be another deadland, but I guess I’ll have to wait and see. Anyways. It’s been three-hundred-and-sixty-five days since. You know. I’m trying not to think about it, which is stupid. I don’t even know if you can hear me. I don’t even know if you’re alive. I miss you. Sorry. I’m being stupid. One year down, four to go, right? I should be happy! I hope you’re all having fun up there. Don’t kill each other, please. And… if you can hear me… I miss you, I’m sorry, hurry back.”_

**____**

 

“So. Day three hundred and sixty-nine. I miss you all so much, gods. It’s raining now, and the acid rain is less dangerous now but I’m hiding from it anyways. God. Please be okay, please, please.”

 

The light-hearted Clarke from a week ago is gone, leaving a sullen, scared and sobbing mess in her wake. She just—gods, she just misses them, so much, and she doesn’t even know if they made it past Earth’s atmosphere. What if they’re dead? What if the bunker failed? What if she truly is the only one left? It’s all just so _hard_ and she’s so _exhausted_ and she thought she’d been healing but today is one of the day where scars are still scabs are still bleeding, and as she huddles away from the rain, curled into a hollow tree, she hiccups and stares into space and is so lonely she can barely breathe.

 

“Four hundred days since you left the earth’s atmosphere, Bellamy. I wonder what it looks like, from up there. Down here there isn’t much to see. There’s good patches, yeah, but for the most part, Bellamy, it’s just—dead. The forest I was in last month is mostly gone now too, all yellow and slimy. Do you remember how beautiful it was when we first landed? I know that this wasn’t my fault, for once, but… I can’t help feeling guilty anyways. I wonder what we’d have thought if the ark hadn’t been running out of oxygen, if we’d seen the end of the world from up in the stars. I wonder if it’d still have happened.”

 

“Day four hundred and sixty, ark. I’m still here, surprise. The radiation is really bad here. Things are literally dying under my feet, shrivelling up and disintegrating into dust, just like that. I don’t know how anyone could survive this. If I’d had any hope that you thought I might still be alive, I don’t anymore.”

 

“Four hundred and fifty nine days. I passed this river today, and it reminded me of when Octavia stripped off and almost got eaten by an eel. Do you remember that, Monty? Jasper was so proud of himself, and I remember thinking that Octavia was remarkably resilient, refusing to stay behind or get carried by Finn. I know Bellamy’s probably worried sick, but just think—Octavia was defying expectations and taking care of herself from literal day one, Bellamy.”

 

She stares at her sketches of Octavia, today. She often takes out the book which holds the faces of her loved ones, but today she stars at Octavia and remembers who she used to be and wonders who she is now, who she will become. Leadership changes people, she knows this. Under the weight of leadership, Clarke had crumbled away and been replaced slowly but surely with something made of steel and a single-minded determination (desperation) to keep her people alive, safe.  Under the weight of leadership, Clarke did things she never thought she could, became someone she never thought she’d be. She wonders if the same will happen to Octavia. She wonders if Octavia is trusting others, is opening up, is wise, allows others to help her, is angry, is sad—she wonders and wonders and her fingers trace over the lines of Octavia’s face until they even appear in her dreams.

 

“Six hundred days, and that feels—I can still remember when it was day six and I thought I was going to die and I was so super sick and somehow I still managed to radio because I thought, y’know, if I was going to die I was going to make sure you knew I was sorry, that I forgave you for leaving, that this is what I wanted. It still is, by the way. So. Thanks, for leaving. For listening. Guess you didn’t need me to be your head after all, Bellamy.”

 

“Six hundred and seventy days, Bellamy, and there’s—I can’t believe I’m saying this, holy shit. There’s a _girl_ here, Bellamy. I met a _girl_. She can’t be older than seven, but she’s a bit smaller than usual, probably because of the radiation. She hasn’t said much, or anything, and her face hasn’t entirely healed from the first radiation, so I’m taking care of her. I have to go, because… because I actually have something I have to _do_ , now. Someone to care for. This is—gods, I hope this isn’t a dream.”

 

**____**

_“It’s been seven hundred and thirty days, so there’s one-thousand-and-ninety-five days to go. You guys must be miserable up there. Monty, the animals are coming back. We saw a three-headed rabbit today… just like old times, huh? It tasted kind of weird, too, so it’s probably toxic but, you know. We’ve made it this far, right? We’re in Blue Cliff land right now, I’m pretty sure. The cliffs are still blue, but there isn’t much else. Madi and I are thinking about heading to Shallow Valley next, but we’ll have to see if we can make it through the deadlands. Plus, you know, Polis. She’s pretty stubborn for a little kid, I can already tell. You’d love her, Bellamy, all of you would. She’s so brave, and she’s so kind, and—she’s also eavesdropping. I can see you, silly! Anyways. I’ve only known her for a few weeks, and my Trigedaslang is kind of rusty, but it’s so nice to talk to someone who can actually talk back. Till next time, ark.”_

**____**

 

“Madi’s been asking about you guys. I’m not sure how much she actually believes me but… she’s little, and I saved her life, so she just accepts it as a part of her life. If I say there’s people in the sky, there’s probably people in the sky. I’ve never… had someone like her. Bellamy, you had Octavia, and maybe Charlotte for a moment, but I’ve never—it’s new for both of us. I’ve been trying to draw her family for her but she doesn’t remember much. Anyway. It’s been seven hundred sixty five days. I can’t wait for you all to meet Madi.”

 

She’s drawing Madi, the wave of her hair, the set of her brow, and Madi is sitting dutifully still across the fire, eyes bright with anticipation, excitement evident in the bounce of her foot. Clarke’s smiling as she draws, concentration only dulled when she looks up to perfect a detail and sees Madi staring back. “Is it done yet?” Madi’s accent is thick but she’s learning, she’s eager to learn—anything from the stars to survival to Clarke. They sleep side by side, bundled under ancient blankets and more recently acquired furs, travelling without something chasing them. Sometimes they stay in travellers’ inns or in traders’ posts, but they both steer clear away from the rubble of cities or villages. _My wild girl,_ Clarke whispers fondly, and Madi grins up at her, gaps in her teeth. _Us wild girls_ , she counters, and Clarke leans forward to tickle her stomach, Madi squealing and batting her hand away.

 

“Day eight hundred. I’ve been telling Madi stories about you all. Sometimes we make illustrations for her favourite ones, like where Raven blows things up or when Octavia and Lincoln meet. She’s especially excited to meet Echo and Emori, the grounders amongst your crew. Emori was somewhat of a nomad too, wasn’t she? Madi loves that, always says she likes that skaikru has members from different backgrounds. The other night she said she wanted to be like Raven when she grew up. She’s taken to calling you the kru in the _skai floudon_ , sky ship. She’s still young enough that she doesn’t really question the truth behind my stories, though she questions everything else, but I wonder if that will change when she gets older. When she… wow. My, our, future doesn’t feel so impossible anymore. She gives me reason to keep going, to persevere. I understand more of your decisions now, Bellamy. Madi and I have only been travelling together for a few months, but… I understand.”

 

“Eight hundred and fourty seven. Madi caught her first rabbit. It feels kind of surreal to be teaching someone else how to survive when I only just began to learn how, when I’m still learning myself. I’m getting better with bow and arrow, but my rifle is still the best. I’ve been adding extensions to it. Madi doesn’t ask about the names I’ve got written on the strap, but I feel like she knows anyways. They’re of everyone I- we’ve- lost, and I haven’t wanted to add yours, but… Bellamy, where are you? Can you even hear me? Madi said that if I added your names on the underside of the strap, it just meant you were missing, not dead, so that’s what I’ve done. She’s pretty wise for an eight-year-old. I know I keep saying this, but... you guys would love her. All of you.”

 

Madi calls her over from across the clearing they’re camped in and Clarke lowers the radio, pushing herself of the tree stump she’d been perched on, swinging the bag she keeps the radio in over one shoulder. Madi’s words are still a mixture of English and Trigedaslang, but Clarke’s finding that so is hers, and as she explains how to skin rabbits, Madi crouching beside her attentively, Clarke blends the languages together seamlessly, and the way Madi takes it in stride, piping up occasionally to ask a question, would show any outsider how close the two are, how different they have become, how much better they are together. Grounder and Skaikru together, united, the two-person family and smoothly-operating unit that they have become. They need each other, and to Clarke, who has not needed anyone but Bellamy for the past few years, it’s less frightening than she’d thought it may have been.

 

“Nine hundred days since Praimfaya! You know, sometimes this is just so fricking weird, Bellamy. Even back on earth, I had very little contact with kids, and down on Earth even less, and the kids I did know were less like kids and more like pint-sized warriors, and now I spend all of my time with someone who’s seven or eight at most. She’s so strong an clever and opinionated that sometimes I forget she’s still a kid, not just a tiny person, a tiny teenager, but today—hah—we’re staying in this traders’ post today and I find her playing dress up.”

 

“Nine hundred thirty-three days, Echo. I never got to know you well—never got to know you at all, really. I’m sorry for that. I don’t know if we’d have gotten along, if we could’ve been friends. I guess, in the end, we were both too committed to our paths, to our duties. But Madi, when I tell her about you all, she’s fascinated by you, _inspired_. Kids do that, you know—show you things in entirely new ways, make you really think about what you believe, show you things from a different perspective. So here’s my new perspective, Echo: I don’t think you were ever a bad person. You’ve definitely done some bad things, but so have I; so have all of us. I choose to believe that you’re up there in space and you’re doing your best to move forward, that you’re doing your best to keep on living. That’s all we can do, isn’t it?”

 

“One thousand days! That’s a big number, so it’s fitting that I share big news—plants are regrowing! Like, new, fresh plants, plants that weren’t there before Praimfaya. This is a big deal, right, Monty? It’s only in certain areas, of course—really sparse in all areas save the one on the horizon. Madi says it seems to have more green than anything she’s ever seen in her whole life, which might be an exaggeration, but who knows. I’m not sure what her home looked like before Praimfaya. Either way, we’re heading towards the green, which seems to be near Broadleaf territory. I’m excited, honestly—I miss the green forests. We’ve stocked up on enough charcoal to fill several trucks—Madi wants to make sure we’ll be able to draw anywhere we go.”

 

Madi’s entranced by art, perfectly content to watch Clarke sketch for hours. Clarke thinks that there probably wasn’t and exposure to the fine arts in Madi’s village, and judging from the way Madi regards art as something extraordinarily exquisite, she’s probably right. Recently, Madi will sit next to her and draw as well, drawing Clarke or flowers or whatever else strikes her fancy—she drew her mother and brother, once, but quickly became frustrated when she struggled to recall their faces. She was so young when they died; she can’t think of how they used to look, which is another reason she finds Clarke’s book of faces so fascinating. Clarke will tell her stories to match the pictures and Madi will reverently trace them with her fingertips, wonder in her eyes. It makes something in Clarke’s chest go all warm and gooey while also clenching tighter than a fist. Clarke makes sure to always complement Madi’s work, always encourage—sometimes it astounds her, that these hands of hers, these killers’ hands, are capable of art, are capable of love. Even after everything she’s done, she’s found some small piece of redemption at the end of the world.

 

“It’s been one thousand fourty-nine days. Harper, I think you’d like it here. You were always something of an enigma, you know—sometimes you remind me of Madi. Or Madi reminds me of you. Either way, Madi’s been running around for the past half hour with flowers in her hair, singing at the birds, splashing through the creek. I remember when we were all at the dropship and you used to follow Monty and Jasper around, Jasper mostly, and I worried about the day you’d disappear, like all the others seemed to, but you, Harper—you became so strong and lovely. Madi calls you the girl who didn’t need to be saved—not quite a warrior, not quite a civilian—something else. I hope that wherever you are, you’re happy. Of all of us, Harper, you so deserve it.”

 

 

________

_“One thousand and ninety-five days after Praimfaya, and we’re still alive! And on the ground, while you have to suffer on the ark. Sucks for you! We’re in Broadleaf right now, and Madi’s asleep. I know it never could have happened but I kind of wish I’d gotten a chance to explore before the end of the world. It’s so pretty. And sometimes we pass ruins that look pretty recent. Either way, the green is starting to come back. So. The radiation is probably starting to become less toxic. Hopefully. Raven’s probably got everything planned down to the minute. You know we’re over half way now. Miss you guys. So much. Feel free to reply.”_

_________

“One thousand one-hundred days… still alive. We’re over half way. Gods. I just— _half way_. That’s—that’s just a long goddamn time.”

She’s miserable, lonely and sad and haunted, but Madi slips under the blanket beside her and curls up against her side, leaning her head onto Clarke’s shoulder. She doesn’t ask questions, (for once,) simply lets Clarke know that she is there and she is not alone. Clarke appreciates it more than words can convey, so she doesn’t attempt to, just presses a kiss into Madi’s hair and lets out a shuddering breath.

“One thousand one hundred and fifty-three nights since the end of the world. And it is night, right now—the stars are so gorgeous. We never really could see them from up there, did we? I’m sorry you didn’t get more time to look at the stars, they’re beautiful. I’ve always been so preoccupied with some crisis or another, I’ve never really had time for an existential one, but—gods, we really are so small, down on this planet.”

“One thousand one hundred and ninety-eight days, Murphy. You know, you were—I don’t think I ever told you this, but you were a real friend to me, John Murphy. Did I ever thank you, for everything you did for me? You were no saint, don’t get me wrong, probably still aren’t, if I know you, but hey— neither am I. I am truly sorry for when I screwed up, John. I hope you aren’t screwing up, up there in space. Don’t be an ass to the others. We both know you’re a big softy, really, at least to those you care about—I wonder if the people you care about will extend from just Emori to including the others you’re trapped with for five years. I think you should know that your face is one of the first I drew. We didn’t do a whole lot right, John, but I don’t—I don’t forget my friends. I thought you should know, anyway. Better late than never, right?”

“One thousand two hundred and thirty days! Madi and I are leaving the green. We’ve both decided we need to be sure, need to know that this is all there is. We’ve both made it through deadland before, anyways, so we should be okay. Madi’s actually kind of excited. She’s calling us explorers, like in your stories, Bellamy. Odessey and the rest of them, grand adventurers are we.”

Madi is bouncing on her toes, rifle slung over her shoulder, which Clarke reaches over and plucks easily. Madi sticks out her tongue and Clarke rolls her eyes, pushes her head playfully. “Come _on_ , _nomon_ ,” Madi whines, and Clarke clicks her tongue at the young girl, but she’s smiling, loading the last of their supplies into the two bags they carry with them and zipping them up, handing the smaller to Madi and slinging the larger over her own shoulders. Madi’s been calling her nomon, mother, for a few months now. Clarke would be more worried if she didn’t fit the assigned role already. Their dynamic isn’t really one of siblings, or mere friends—mother and daughter seems to be what they are, somehow. Clarke is really just surprised Madi’s comfortable calling her that, because she still remembers fragments of her old family. Surprised but incredibly touched. “Hasty, hasty,” she teases, “Much too hasty for such a small _natbleda_.” Madi squeals indignantly, and Clarke giggles and bumps her hip into Madis’ to show it’s all in good fun. Madi, who Clarke thinks is probably now around nine, smiles and bumps back.

“One thousand two hundred sixty days, and the green place is behind us now. We can’t see it anymore. There’s just… blackness. It’s easier to remember what’s happened, out here. Easier to remember Praimfaya, in that it had geological effects, not just, well, everything else. It’s like walking through a warzone.”

The sleep close together, warier of the empty expanses than they ever were of the forests. Crispy bushes and charred tree stumps are the extent of the flora they encounter, and Madi runs ahead of Clarke some days simply to see if there’s anything hiding upon the horizon. Impossibly, there never is.

“One thousand three hundred days. I’ve been teaching Madi things, Bellamy. Everything I remember, earth skills and history and language and logic and math—I wasn’t a perfect student but I figure it’s important, right? You’d be so much better at this, gods, but I’m trying, and so is Madi. She says I’m pretty good at it, and I’ll take what comfort I can from that—even though I am the only other person she knows. It’s the thought that counts, right?”

“One thousand three hundred ninety days, already. We’re still going, even now. It’s easier to adapt to this life than my eighteen year old self could have ever believed. I wonder if we’ll ever meet anyone, or if we’re truly the last people here. Alone on this dead planet. Gods, I hope not… even if it’s just so Madi can hear someone else’s voice.”

“One thousand four hundred and fifty three days, and we might not be the only people on this earth but we aren’t alone. Madi and I have been noticing pawprints, big ones. Huge. Kind of funny-looking, like back in Trikru, before we even knew what we were in for. We’re in a dead forest right now, all big and charred and black, so whatever it is—they have room to hide. I’m not sure what we’ll do if we get attacked, I’m not the best at tracking and Madi’s had no experience with bigger thi—”

“Day one thousand four hundred fifty five. Sorry I didn’t radio yesterday, and that the frequency before that was cut short. We found out what was following us, or what we were following, or what was beside us the whole time, or—anyway, it was a _pauna_. Giant gorilla thing. Even bigger than the one that attacked Lexa and I, so long ago. Massive, and mutated and scrawny, and it got its jaws into my leg and Madi’s shoulder before I managed to shoot it with the rifle. It’s not looking great, Bellamy.”

_________

_“It’s day one thousand four hundred and sixty. Still here, Bellamy. We’ve decided to head back to Trikru. Or Skaikru. Whichever. Madi’s still pretty sick. She’s… I don’t know. The bite’s gotten infected. Figures that goddamn pauna would survive. My leg’s healing, at least, so hopefully we can be gone within a week or two. We’re somewhere between Delphi and Rockline, so we should be home in a couple months at most, what with my leg and with Madi. Home. I don’t—home is where the heart is, I guess, so it isn’t really that big of a deal, but… you guys better come down soon, okay? Madi can’t wait to meet you. I can’t wait to see you all again. Even you, Murphy. Hurry back.”_

_________

 

“It’s been exactly a week since the third anniversary. How old am I now, twenty one? Twenty two? God. Soon I’ll be as old as you were when you came down here, Bellamy. I’m already older than Raven was, than so many of them ever got to be. You were all so young. I was so young. Somehow, the week after the anniversary is always worse.”

“Madi started crying, yesterday. It’s been one thousand four hundred and ninety three days, by the way, but Madi started crying and that’s more important. Her last stitches came out two weeks ago, but she’s still regaining strength, and so am I, so we have to take longer, more frequent breaks. She just got so frustrated with herself, with the shortness of breath, so we curled up and stayed in the same place for the rest of the day, spent the night under the stars. I’ve never… before Madi, I’d never been any good at _comfort_. I’m still kind of shit but—it comes more naturally. I’m finally starting to feel like more of a healer again, less of a warrior, leader, fighter.”

They set off mid-afternoon the next day, and Madi wraps her arm around Clarke’s waist and her head on her shoulder as they walk, and Clarke grips her tightly and sings songs. It feels so much softer than anything ever used to be, and it feels right. Now, there is time to recuperate after injury, time to strengthen after tears.

“One thousand five hundred and eleven days, Bellamy. We made it. It looks awful. Everything here is burnt and dead, and the metal that survived is all warped and melted. We’ve salvaged what we could, and we found rovers! I’ve never—gods. I don’t think I’ve ever even had a chance to learn to drive, Bellamy.”

“One thousand five hundred sixteen days. This rover is trying to kill me, Raven. You’d be laughing at me so hard, right now, if you could see me—gods. I’m so bad at this. _So bad_. I‘ve crashed into three trees so far. Madi won’t enter the rover with me. She says she’s waiting to see she won’t be crushed to death, which is so _rude_ because of _course_ I can do it, I just need practice, right?”

“It’s been one thousand five hundred twenty-two days. We’re still in Arkadia territory. Though, honestly, what is it, now? Trikru, Azgeda, Arkadia? The lines were always blurred, for me, but now... now it’s just me and Madi and the land. Just us, us and the sky and the ground. It’s not so bad… Anyways. We’ve collected all the fuel we could find, stored it in the nicest rover. Madi’s trying to get me to teach her to drive, but I’m waiting until _I_ can do it properly. We’ve decided to head to the living land. The green place. It’s… hm. Three weeks from here, maybe? Longer on foot. There’s nothing for us, here. Maybe… maybe we’ll live there. Settle down.”

Madi carries Jasper’s old iPod in one of the pockets in her jacket, and when Clarke’s driving sometimes Madi’ll plug it into the rover with surprisingly sure fingers, turn the volume up and sway to the music with an easy rhythm Clarke envies. Madi’s good at dancing, Clarke learnt early on. She’ll twist and turn all night if she can, spinning around the campfire, pulling Clarke up with her and teaching her whatever she can remember from Before. For now, though, she rolls down the window and sticks an arm out, fingers stretched wide, hair loose and tossing in the wind. Clarke sends her a glance, grinning, and taps her fingers on the steering wheel in time to the music. Madi loves to drive, loves it with an ease others may not have expected from a girl who’s spent half her life wandering on foot and the other closeted away in a tribal village. But that’s Madi, Clarke knows: adaptable and young and so full of life it makes Clarke’s heart feel fit to burst.

“Well, it’s been one thousand five hundred thirty four days, and we’re still driving. It’s nice, easy. Faster than walking everywhere… not that that wasn’t nice too. Madi and I sit on the roof of the rover at night, stare at the stars. We’ll pull over any time we see water, of course, or to stretch our legs, but we’re doing a lot of driving. There’s still a while before we have to be ready for you all, but it feels like we have an actual destination, now. Somewhere to go, somewhere to be. Somewhere across the flat deadlands. Somewhere… better.”

“One thousand five hundred and fourty seven days, everyone. We’ve finally made it to the green place. We’re calling it _sonraun_. Means life. It was Madi’s idea, to name it something. She wanted to name it something more mystical, more magical, but I couldn’t remember much of your stories, Bellamy, and… well. I think _life_ is kind of fitting. It’s _so_ _beautiful_ here.”

Clarke teaches Madi how to climb trees. They’re both wary, at first, so used to crumbling and charred trees, still burnt and dead after praimfaya, but these trees are strong, sturdy. “How long ago did you do this?” Madi asks dubiously, from below her, and Clarke sticks a tongue out at her. “ _Shush_ ,” she gripes good-naturedly. “I still remember.” Madi raises an eyebrow challengingly but she’s grinning, and then Clarke is laughing so hard she falls the short distance to the ground. Madi yelps and rushes over to her but Clarke is still laughing and then Madi is too, sitting together on the mossy ground, dirt on their hands and in their hair.

“One thousand, five hundred, eighty six days. I’ve been wondering about the bunker. Maybe, when things have settled a bit more... I’ll drive out, see if I can find it. See if I can contact them.”

“One thousand six hundred and twenty days. I think that earth might be even more beautiful now, after so much deadland. It’s certainly brighter in some places. The fluorescent moss doesn’t just glow, it _shines_. Some of the birds sound funny when they sing. Little things, y’know. Lots of little things.”

“That’s one big thing, _noman_ ,” says Madi, voice still scratchy from sleep, rubbing one knuckle across her eye. Clarke smiles softly and lifts her arm so Madi can lean easier against her side, letting the gentle pinks and purples of the sunrise wash over them, faces tilted to the sky.

“It’s been one thousand six hundred and fifty days! Today was a good day. Madi and I are still exploring, and we found the most amazing pond. It’s smaller than the lakes near the mountain, but it’s almost clear and there’s this little waterfall… there’s some edible-looking fish but nothing too big to be dangerous. We spent hours in the water and lying by the edges. It’s so much easier to focus on the beauty of earth when I don’t have to worry about who’s watching us from the trees.”

“One thousand seven hundred and thirty days.”

Clarke clicks off the radio and rolls over onto her side, Madi’s hair tickling her nose. She yawns and slips an arm over Madi’s waist, the soft musty smell of pine trees and metal finally familiar after months of sleeping in the rover. The furs over their bodies are warm and a welcome weight, and through the nets draped over the rover’s back, the early morning light is only just beginning to shine in. Clarke lets Madi’s steady breathing lull her to sleep, and she doesn’t worry why she’s never gotten a response from the radio and she doesn’t wonder if they’ll ever come back. Today, she nestles closer to Madi and dreams of butterflies and glistening lakes, and when she wakes she and Madi will spend the morning sketching by the pond, and she’ll be happy.

Once, not all that long ago, Clarke thought she’d never be happy, never be able to be happy, never deserve to be happy.

“It’s been… one thousand seven hundred and ninety nine days, Bellamy. We’re almost there.”

_______

_“One thousand eight hundred and twenty-five days after Praimfaya and I’m still radioing. Madi’s going out of her mind, she’s climbing the tallest trees she can find. Says she’s gonna be the first one to spot you. She’s so excited to meet you all, especially you, Emori, Echo. She can’t wait to meet other grounders. Then again, she’s also been telling me about what she wants Raven to teach her, so I guess we’ll see. It’s okay if you don’t come straight away, though. I know things don’t always go according to plan, trust me. But don’t worry, I won’t blame you… You guys, please come soon.”_

______

“One thousand eight hundred and twenty-six days… you’re not here yet. Obviously.”

“One thousand eight hundred thirty-one days. Where are you, Bellamy? Raven?”

“One thousand eight hundred fourty days. So. I guess you’re not coming. I—gods. I _want_ to believe you’re alive, I _do_. God. Bellamy, where—where are you? Please, you can’t—gods. You can’t be dead, okay? I can’t—I can’t—”

The sun’s light has felt dimmer recently, but Clarke might just be projecting. She’s—well. She’s not _fine_ , on the outside, but she’s running through the motions of the days like she always has. Madi clings closer to her at night, and Clarke is so grateful for her. So grateful that Madi clings closer instead of pushing her away, betrayed or disgusted or—no. Madi is the only thing that keeps Clarke going... maybe she always was. Maybe Clarke had just been so... distracted… that she didn’t truly see it. 

“One thousand nine hundred days. My hair is shorter, now. Madi cut it off for me. She says… she says we deserve… we deserve a fresh start. I guess it’s… you know, turning over a new leaf… starting over. I hadn’t even realised how long it was, but it was. Long, I mean. Longer than I remember Monroe’s hair being. Almost to my waist. I’d been wearing it in a braid, or in a ponytail, but. Madi says we deserve a fresh start.”

She doesn’t say _a fresh start away from you (and your memory)_ but she thinks it. She knows it’s what Madi meant too. She can’t find it in her to be annoyed or hurt: she thinks it too, after all.

“One thousand nine hundred and one days. You know, for the first time… I mean… I think that maybe we do. Madi does, for sure, of course, but even me. I deserve a fresh start. You know, once upon a time I thought I didn’t even deserve to live.”

“It’s one thousand nine hundred and sixty days after Praimfaya. Madi and I saw three wild horses today. Madi wants to tame them, but I think we should leave them be… I doubt we’d have very much success, anyway. Sometimes things should be allowed freedom.”

“It’s been one thousand nine hundred and eighty-four days. We stayed up late, last night. Talked about you. I think it’ll probably be the last time you’re the heroes of our stories for a while. Madi’s not as young as she used to be. She’s not… angry, I don’t think, but. She’s still a kid. She shouldn’t be weighed down by my ghosts. We talked about you all, of course. Lots of Bellamy and Raven today. But I also talked about Lexa. Lexa, Finn, Wells… the names on my rifle. I haven’t told her too much about them before, but it felt okay. Right. It was time, I think.”

Sometimes they’ll collect the berries they don’t think are edible and mash them into watery pastes, delicately painted over canvas or stretched animal skins, with brushes of moss, fur, or hair. Madi loves to paint. Clarke prefers sketching but she’s never been one to turn away any artistic opportunity, and now she doesn’t have to. They’ll sit on the edges of clifffaces or on the roof of the rover or on grassy hills, in silence or accompanied by Madi’s music or soft conversation. Madi paints landscapes, often, and sometimes the sky, and sometimes Clarke. Clarke makes sure she hugs Madi extra-long and kisses her hair and finds a new compliment for every artwork, and Madi’s smiles could light up the world.

“Two thousand days. That’s a big freaking number, Bellamy. It’s been a long freaking time.”

“Two thousand eleven days and still going strong. We’re going to head to Polis. See if we can contact the bunker, or at least find some supplies. Neither of us has said it, but… I guess we’re hoping to see somebody. The bunker only had air for five years… it’s possible that they fund another way to survive, but it makes me nervous to see that we haven’t come across anyone yet. It can’t hurt to check, at least.”

“Polis is… gods. It’s been… hm. Two thousand, thirty-five days since Praimfaya… huh. We’re in… well, what used to be Polis. There isn’t much left. We’ve come through the outskirts before, so I thought maybe something would be left… there isn’t anything but rubble and some bones. We’re trying to contact the bunker, but… I don’t think anything’s going to happen, Bellamy. I’m sorry.”

They find a field of wildflowers on their way back to sonraun _._ Madi laughs in delight as Clarke brings the vehicle to a slow stop, leaping out before the rover’s stopped moving, turning back with a wild grin while bounding backwards. The reeds and grasses are tall and soft, not brittle or sharp. The flowers are bright and velvety, and Madi leans her head down Clarke’s knees as Clarke braids them into her thick hair, humming under her breath.

“It’s been… two thousand, one hundred days. You know, it’s safe here. It’s liveable. The animals are coming back, the plants are edible, the rain and snow is harmless… you can come down. So. Just… so you know.”

“Raven. I saw a group of birds today, bigger than anything I’ve ever seen, all flying together into the sunlight. It’s been two thousand one hundred and fifteen days since Praimfaya… if I was religious, or superstitious, maybe I’d think it was a sign that you’re gone, though an essence of you lives on down here. As it is, I think you’d have loved to see all those birds. I’ll draw it for you.”

Her throat closes up as she finishes the transmission, sky still light but beginning to darken. Madi’s back at the rover, but Clarke is perched on a mossy cliff-face, sketchbook and pencil gripped in her scarred fingers. She closes her eyes and turns her head to the sky, cool wind ruffling through her chopped hair, bringing colour into her cheeks. Inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale. This, thinks Clarke, is good. This feels like a fresh start. A new grief: one that aches, not burns, one that brings the joy of memory along with the sadness of loss. This, thinks Clarke, is probably how it should be.

“Two thousand one hundred twenty-nine days after the end of the world. I feel the sun on my face. I see trees all around me, scent of wildflowers on a breeze. It’s so beautiful. I wish you could all be here with us, but maybe I needed this... _need_ this. To relearn how to see beauty in the world.”

“It’s been two thousand one hundred and fifty days, everyone. You know who I miss? Lincoln. I wish he’d been able to see the tribes come together for the bunker, wish he could be here now. He was always… different. So kind, soft-hearted. Madi loves the stories with him in it.”

Madi wants to make a drum. Clarke is working on the animal skin as she radios and after she clicks it off, stretching the fabric until it’s stretched out and fits tightly over the drum, twine binding twigs together to create a vaguely spherical shape. Madi doesn’t know when her birthday is, but then again, neither does Clarke. Birthdays were never such a big deal on the ark anyway, and Clarke guesses it was similar here on earth. They don’t really mind it. In some ways, she guesses it’s better like this: no reason to give gifts or be nice, no responsibility or duties… just out of the goodness of their hearts. Random acts of kindness, Abby would have said. Clarke mostly agrees, but with her and Madi their kindness is never random.

___________

“It’s been safe for you to come back for a year, Bellamy, so. Madi’s not happy that I’m still radioing, so I’m talking to you while she’s asleep. She thinks I need to let you go, that this isn’t healthy, but I don’t know. Doing this has been all that’s kept me going all these years, this and Madi. It feels wrong to give up now. Where  _are_  you guys?”

__________

 

“That was dumb. I know where you are. You’re dead. You’ve probably always been dead. Maybe you never even made it to space. It’s been over two thousand and ninety days. You’re not coming back.”

 

“I don’t know why I keep doing this. You’re dead.”

 

“I changed my mind. I’m doing this for _me_. You might be gone, you might be dead, you might be… But I’m here! I’m alive! And so is Madi. We are here and we are alive and if I need to do this to keep myself accountable, to remember… then fine. I don’t think I’d even know how to stop, at this point. But… Bellamy. This is for me.”

She still radios every day, but it feels different somehow. Her days are made up of Madi and the ground and the rover, and that's okay. That's who she is now, and she's happy with her life, she's happy with herself. She still radios, but she knows she doesn't need to and somehow that makes all the difference. 

_________

_“Bellamy. If you can hear me, if you’re alive, it’s been two thousand one hundred and ninety-nine days since Praimfaya. I don’t know why I still do this every day… maybe it’s my way of staying sane. Not forgetting who I am. Who I was. It’s been safe for you to come down for over a year now… Why haven’t you? The bunker’s gone silent. We tried to get them out for a while but… there’s too much rubble. I haven’t made contact with them either. Anyway, I still have hope. Tell Raven to aim for the one spot of green and you’ll find me. The rest of the planet from what I’ve seen basically sucks… Never mind. I see you._

**Author's Note:**

> So there it is! I might continue this series, depends on what people think... please review and let me know what you think!! xx


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